


Not Going Back

by HazelTheHorrific



Series: Standalone Oneshots and Self Indulgence [1]
Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Boris Pavlikovsky Deserves Better, Boris Pavlikovsky is Damaged, Boris Pavlikovsky's Dad is an Asshole, Cherish Boris or Die, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, Other, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:55:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29891802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HazelTheHorrific/pseuds/HazelTheHorrific
Summary: Boris' father isn't happy with him being in a relationship. Boris' father has his own ways to teach his son a lesson. Battered, bruised, walking through the snow, Boris has only one place to go- he just has to hope you won't hate him.
Relationships: Boris Pavlikovsky/Reader
Series: Standalone Oneshots and Self Indulgence [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2197833
Kudos: 1





	Not Going Back

**Author's Note:**

> (A/N): Okay, okay, hi- Yeah, I know, I have lots of other stories I'm supposed to be updating but I had this oneshot idea and I just could not get it out of my head for the life of me. Since I've been a little down lately and life has been giving me a tough time I decided- fuck it- I'm just going to allow myself a little self indulgence. I'm currently reading The Goldfinch and Boris is just- my husband. I love him, and I had to write this for him! This doesn't follow canon plot at all, and the setting is also not in Vegas but- that's okay, who cares, this is fanfiction so it doesn't need to make sense. Enjoy!

It was cold, freezing, hardly five degrees- the moon was invisible behind a thick swath of clouds, snow coating the earth alongside subzero winds. The streets were dark and void of anyone, anything, leaving Boris to stumble alone in nothing but a t-shirt and his black boxer shorts. His entire body throbbed alongside his heartbeat, slow, steady pulses of pain that came excruciating wave after excruciating wave. Sharp bursts of agony lanced up and down his spine, and he was almost certain that something somewhere in his chest was broken- a rib, maybe, or his hip or something close. His feet were buzzing, alight with a searing, burning sensation worse than anything he had thought possible, but that was near nothing compared to the splitting within his head. If Boris could form a thought, grasp any full sentence at all, he would think that he was probably concussed from the way the world shifted underneath his bare feet, and the way nausea roiled and boiled in his stomach, up into his throat like acid. He wanted to double over, to throw up, to lie down in the snow and let it claim him but even that seemed to be too much work. His sluggish brain was working on autopilot, carrying him forwards as he hugged himself, silent tears running down his face. Boris' hands were shaking, coated in his own blood- his hair was wet, matted with scarlet from some wound hidden beneath it. His nose was burning, warm, and his lips were puffed, his gums bleeding. Blood dripped from his chin and stained his shirt- he sacrificed his energy to spit into the snow, the metallic tang in his mouth too much to bear. The snow grew dotted with a colour that shone black in the cold, barren light. Every inch of his pale skin wore blooming bruises like a canvas. 

Boris had nothing other than his dwindling hope. You were his only option, his last resort, you, perfect you who had felt the need to hide him, hide your relationship from everyone else in your life- he hadn't met your friends or family, and he understood exactly why. He was a bad person. A negative influence. He understood, and now, in the cold, he agreed but he hoped that you would help him anyways. Through his tear-blurred gaze, your home formed through the curtain of falling snow, warm, golden light spilling from an open window onto the street. Left with only one choice, Boris had taken it, he'd had to- and so, he was throwing away the guise you had set up and begging you for your help. He hugged himself tighter, his breath hitching in his throat. You would be angry, he knew. You would be angry that he would ever dare expose you for liking someone like him, let your parents know that you were dating the waste of space that he was. Boris felt bitter hatred, hatred for himself, join the fear sluicing through his veins. He had to do this and he wished he didn't.

Boris turned. He couldn't feel his legs, his arms. His head was throbbing, his back was scorching. Pain was all he knew. He forced himself forwards, one step at a time, until he was in front of your door and allowed himself to stop. The world around him swayed, spinning alongside the snow, and he collapsed against the door for support. One hand landed on the doorknob, and he brought it upwards, balling it into a trembling fist. He froze. No choice. These two words were frightening. He forced his fist down into a heavy thump, once, and then, using all of his strength, again. Everything hurt. Blood dripped from his chin and spattered on the ground at his feet, black, threatening. He managed to hit the door on last time, weak, and then stars went dancing, spinning, twirling around in front of his eyes and overwhelming exhaustion hung from his arms and legs, his head, his chest. He was going to pass out. He was going to die right here, so close- the door opened. His knees gave in as his support disappeared from in front of him, and a woman screamed as he fell to hard wood flooring. Warmth enveloped him at once, his ears started to ring, his vision went dark. Boris is vaguely aware of a fresh wave of pain roiling over him as his head slams against the ground- the pain itself does not subside, but as his blood starts to thaw his vision returns. 

"Oh my god- honey? Honey!" The woman who had opened the door is panicking, screaming, each word, each syllable, a new harpoon of agony splitting through his head. Boris struggled to collect himself, one hand planting itself on the ground and pushing as hard as it could. He managed into a half-kneel, gravity seeming all too strong to do any more than that.

"Holy shit! Is that the- the Palikovsky kid? Fuck!" A man appeared somewhere nearby, but Boris' mind was swimming still and he couldn't tell where the voice was coming from. Hands were now on Boris' back, agitating the injuries, the breaks and bruises, and then those hands were curling underneath his arms and he was being hauled much too abruptly to his feet. The colors around him all blurred into a mass of grey and black and white and his wakefulness threatened to slip away entirely. "(Y/N), get the phone!" (Y/N), your name, you were here and Boris had made it and- Your scream split the tense night air and just like that Boris was dragged back into his body with a sickening jolt, conscious enough to make out the shapes and colors consisting of you and only you. Somehow, he was granted energy, strength, a split-second burst of it reminiscent of the crack of a whip. His arms shots out and his feet planted against the ground, and just like that he was moving for you, in your direction. The woman who Boris guessed to be your mother let out a shriek, fear, afraid of him moving towards you so suddenly as if she thought he would ever ever hurt you. He was so vaguely aware of both of your parents moving to stop him, but your arms opened up and accepted him just like that. Their fear didn't phase you.

"Boris, oh my God-" The familiar feeling of your embrace was enough to allow him to let his guard down. The tears that had been sliding down his face didn't stop, and now, alongside them came out form-shaking sobs, the sounds tearing painfully from his lungs, blazing through his raw, shredded throat. Boris was taller than you, just slightly heavier, too- as he failed to support himself, the two of you went to the floor, you managing to hold tight enough to save him from any more harm. He could feel himself shaking, or- no, you were the one shaking now, harder than him. One of your hands reached up to rest on the back of his neck and the action almost made him flinch until you guided his head to lean against your neck and he caught the familiar smell of your clothing. "Boris, baby, what happened? What happened to you?" Your voice rose, wavering, and he knew you were crying too. 

"Call the police!" Your father's words were enough to get Boris to speak at last, fighting through all of his pain, all of his terror and illness. 

"No, no n-no no no Kotku please-" His voice came out in a pathetic croak but it was all you needed to bark at your father,

"No police! No hospital, that's- that's out of the q-question!" Boris clung to you for dear life, grabbing fistfuls of your shirt, staining the article with blood and not having the strength to care. He was still sobbing, shaking alongside you, the pain washing over him anew with each minute movement. "Boris, please tell me what's wrong, was it-" Your voice died, and you bit your lip, blinking away tears before forcing yourself to continue on, "Was it your father?" For a moment, he hesitated, and then he nodded into your shoulder and let his last walls crumble. He couldn't hide anything from you. You didn't deserve that. "Fuck, oh my God," Another few seconds passed of you clinging to him and him clinging to you- right now, the only thing Boris needed was your form around his, cradling him, protecting him. He was safe with you, he knew he was, and he couldn't ever let you go. "Boris, come with me, okay? Let's go to the couch, you're freezing," Boris hadn't noticed until you'd said it but gooseflesh had ravaged his skin and his limbs were burning from the sudden shift in temperature. He didn't want to stand, didn't think he had the strength, but he wouldn't let you go and you were already standing so he was forced to follow along. You supported him more than he'd ever have liked to admit. He hated feeling so weak, so small, so hurt- he was burdening you and he didn't want to have to depend on you like this but he had no choice no option he couldn't fucking help it. The world slipped by him in a blur as he stumbled along, but before he knew it you were leaning him down onto the couch and trying to pull away from him. 

"No, no no no please don't leave me don't go don't-" 

"Boris, Boris it's okay, hey, look at me," His hand had tightened around your arm but it was still weak and frail and icy. Your own hands lifted to rest on his face, straightening out his head, which lolled back and forth, and catching his dark gaze in your own. The state he was in was terrifying, and you were trying hard to stop your heart from thudding itself out of your chest. "I'm not going anywhere, Boris, I'll be right here. I'll be right here, baby, I just need to get you a blanket you're freezing and- I swear to you, I will only be gone for a moment." Boris' eyes fell shut, and he sucked in a shaky, hitching breath, his hand finally falling away from you and instead pulling his knees to his chest. He fell to the side, letting the soft cushions break his fall, and curled in on himself, sobbing into his knees. He was cold, and he was afraid, and everything hurt and he wanted to fucking scream and cry but he couldn't do that, his body wouldn't let him do that and he felt so trapped and lonely and you were going to run away even though you promised that you wouldn't because who the fuck would want someone like him when he's bleeding and crying and being so fucking weak? You were going to run away and call the police. He'd be sent to the hospital and his father would be called and he would hurt him again, he would kill him just like he said he would and Boris wouldn't be able to stop it, he'd die with you hating him and he'd die without saying the he-

The couch shifts, and you sit back down at his feet with a thick blanket in your hands. The relief that pours through him tears out more sobs, more terror, and he forces himself up despite the pain rocketing through his back to throw himself at you, clinging to your side once more. His hands wrap around your neck, his legs around your hips, his face buries itself back into your neck. You unfurl the blankets and pull it around him and yourself, your hand rising up to lace in his hair, mindful of the wound in the back of his head, the other hand pulling him closer by wrapping around his shoulders. 

"My mother is making tea, Boris, and my dad is getting something to help patch you up, okay? It's going to be alright, you're safe now baby, you're safe," He feels your lips press against his temple, and then your cheek presses securely against his own, grounding him. He sucks in another breath, rough and ragged, and tries to get words out between his shaking sobs. It's hard and it hurts and he can manage no more than a hiss, but he does it, somehow, and you begin to rub smooth circles into his back. 

"Kotku, he was going to kill me, I know he- he was going to kill me (Y/N), wouldn't stop hitting me over and over and I had to run I had to leave and-" Boris used all of his strength to hold you closer, tighter, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his face into your shoulder. You would keep him safe, you had to, he knew you would, "He found my phone, he found out about you and he said he would hurt you too, that he would kill me first and then- and then-" You began to shush him gently, shaking off your fear of accidentally hurting him and pulling him tighter against your chest. He was so afraid, so damaged, so hurt. You wanted nothing more than to beat the shit out of his father, but you knew that wasn't important right now- what was important was helping him. Your mother appeared in the doorway with a mug of tea, her eyes flickering over the shape of you and Boris flush against one another, the blood staining both your clothes and his. She was concerned for both you and him but she simply set the tea down and took a few steps away to stand by the door. 

"Boris, look at me," You pull your arms away, placing your hands on his face again and guiding it away to look him in those watery, dark, beautiful eyes- one of them was ringed by a deepening black, "There's tea here now, it'll help your throat, okay? It'll help to calm you down, and to warm you up. Will you drink it for me, baby?" Your thumb traces slowly back and forth against his cheekbone, mindful of the deep, bleeding cut just above it. He nodded his head, unsteady, and you let his forehead fall momentarily against yours, brushing your own nose against his. "You're safe now, love, you're here with me and I won't let anything happen to you. You know that, right? You know I won't let anything bad happen to you ever again?" Boris nods his head again and you kiss him, quick and chaste but comforting. You feel your mothers gaze burning into you and pray that Boris doesn't feel it too. You help Boris off of you, helping him sit safely upright with the blanket curled around his shoulders. Leaning forwards, you grab the cup of tea, and bring it towards him. In his bloodstained hands, he takes it, and brings it up towards his face to soak in the warmth wafting off of it. You sit as close as you can, one arm snaking behind him, around his waist, holding him gently. Boris shifts, his weight falling lightly against your shoulder. "Oh, my poor baby," You scrub the tears from your eyes with the heel of your hand, placing a kiss on Boris' cheek, his nose, the corner of his mouth. Your shock, your panic, your fear, it's lessening. When he'd come into the house, collapsing on the floor, you'd been horrified. He had looked like he was dying. Now, you could see that, with the warmth and the relief of safety, he was conscious, okay enough to be alright for a little while longer. Boris took a tentative sip of his tea, afterwards letting out a shallow, trembling sigh.

"Here, (Y/N), here," Your father was back now, setting down a grey burlap bag, zipped shut, donning a white cross. It was the medical kit you had under the upstairs sink- it was nothing professional by any means, but it would be enough to stop the bleeding, to reassure you that Boris would be okay, that he'd get better. "Sit forwards, son, let me take a look at you," Your father took a seat on the coffee table and reached a hand on Boris' direction to help him up, but Boris flinched away, shrinking closer against your side. He was terrified. 

"Shhh, shhh, Boris," Your hand comes up to his face, turning him to face you and offering a quavering smile, "I promise you'll be safe, he going to help you. I'll be right here." The smile that you got in return, it was so very far from that beautiful, carefree Boris smile you were used to- you felt your heart throb, a wave of pain and adoration swelling in your chest. Not for the first time, you realized that you love Boris. You take the tea from his hands after he takes one more sip, and set it down on the table before returning all of your attention to him. He looks ill as he moves forwards and allows your dad to examine his beaten face. 

"Jesus," Your father hisses out the words through gritted teeth, concern scrawled over his features. He turns to the medkit, unzips the top, and begins to ruffle around inside. Boris raises a hand, pressing the back of it against his mouth to try and stifle his lingering sobs. He's calmed, just a little, but the tears are still running clear tracks through the blood on his face and his head is still splitting down the middle. "What happened to you, boy?" Your dad came back with a small square of white, an antiseptic rag. Boris knew all too well what it was- and he was also familiarized with the burning sting that accompanied it. His hand shot out, taking yours, and he pulled it into his lap, squeezing it as tight as he could just as the scrap of damp fabric pressed against the mean cut underneath his eye, swiping away the scarlet. You leaned towards him, head landing on his shoulder, moving gently back and forth, soothing, close. His breathing quickened, coming in fast, moving out faster, and you gave his hand a comforting squeeze. The rag moved to his upper lip, cleaning the dried blood from there, and then it ran across his lips, across those cuts all the same. Each little movement sent a bright, sour pain through his face.

"Doing great, baby," You mumbled the words into the snow-damp sleeve covering his shoulder, and he could manage nothing more than a curt nod of his head. The cloth moved lower, wiping clean his neck and collar, then your father was pulling out bandages. The rest of the treatment was rapid, easy. Everything that could be cleaned was cleaned, and it was obvious that Boris was much too exhausted to shower away the blood matted in his hair- that would have to happen tomorrow, after he's slept, eaten. Your father, Boris as taken care of as possible, let out a huff and stood from his seat, leaving the room without a word. Your mother passed you a simple glance and exited right behind him. At once, you could hear them muttering in the next room over and you could guess what they were talking about, too, but you didn't care. Instead of bothering with them, you took both of Boris' hands in yours and turned him slowly to look at you. With the blood gone, you could more clearly see the bruises littering his face; one cheek was swelling, and the opposite eye was as black as the night, shiny and painful. He opened his mouth to speak, his eyes glazing over with a fresh new sheen of tears, and then he looked away. Bashful, frightened, he said,

"Kotku, I..." Kotku, his nickname for you, Polish for 'kitty', spoken so soft you are hit with that strong love again, "I'm so sorry. I-I'm so sorry I had to come here, I'm so sorry I threw away the secret, I'm sorry I- mne zhal', chto ya oblazhalsya-" The distress and the emotion in Boris' voice was saddening, and the use of his Russian breaking through hurt you even more. He spoke in Russian often, but only ever to tease you. He spoke in Russian only with a smile on his face, poking fun at you for being unable to understand it. If he spoke Russian, it had always been lighthearted, fun- Now, though, you knew that he was speaking this way because he was afraid to voice whatever his words meant. You opened your arms in a hug and he was quick to accept it, letting you drag him into your lap, guiding his head back into it's rightful place in the crook of your neck. Gently, you pet the back of his hair, avoiding the now-clean wound on the top of his head. "Ya ne dolzhen byl syuda prikhodit', ya znayu, chto ne dolzhen byl rasskazyvat' o nas tvoim roditelyam tol'ko potomu, chto moi sidelali," Boris' low voice came out spoken against your neck, muffled, quick, but you knew you wouldn't have understood much of it anyways. You knew he was apologizing, and you knew he was guilty though he shouldn't have been. He was the one who had been hurt. 

"Shut up, Boris," You force conviction into your words and feel the way he tenses against you, still so vulnerable, "You have nothing to be sorry for. You did the right thing coming here, I never would have turned you away. You could come here no matter what and I would always hug you, take care of you- you know that, don't you?" You let a moment pass, waiting for an answer- when he didn't give one, you prompted, "Tell me that you know that, please." 

"I..." Boris sucked in a breath, shifting closer, "I know that, Kotku, I know." 

"Thank you." Boris laughs, a quiet thing, and hugs you tighter, trying to hide his face- if he could wish for one thing right now, it would be to fade away into nothing, to hide the way his face shone a bright, embarrassed, pathetic red. This is the first time he's ever been like this with you- you'd never seen him cry before. 

"Why? Is it not me who should do the thanking?" You shake your head slowly, solemnly, and lean in to kiss his head. Your nose settles into his hair. He smells of coconut and vanilla, a tender scent, that of the shampoo you had bought for him since his father never bought him anything. You gripped desperately to his shirt, wanting to be able to hug him even tighter but knowing you would hurt him if you did. The burning hatred towards Mr. Pavlikovsky paired with the near-painful love blazing within you for Boris himself was almost too much to bear.

"You don't have a thing to thank me for- you don't have a thing to apologize for, either. You're perfect, Boris, in every little tiny way." Boris went to shake his head, but you wouldn't have that. You pushed him gently away, your gaze intense, trying to communicate every emotion you felt towards him. And then- you kissed him. Your lips connect with his- for a moment, he is shocked, tense. Of course you've kissed him before, but it's never felt like this. You make sure you're soft, gentle, afraid to irritate his injuries. You want to show him everything you feel through this kiss but you don't want to hurt him- After his moment of shock, as soon as that last shred of doubt fades from in his dark eyes, he leans in right back, pressing your mouths together with more force, more conviction, his lids falling shut. He was afraid he would have died tonight without you. He was afraid you would leave him, but now, as he shares his breath with you, just for a moment, thoughts rocket through his skull- the brightest, warmest, nicest one is the thought that he positively adores you. Boris is head over fucking heels for you and he is going to say it to you, right here, right now. What else is there to lose? He pulls away, his hands, the shaking finally stopping, moving up to rest on the sides of your face. "Kotku, I... I love you. I want you to know that I adore you, (Y/N). I owe you my life." The breath is sucked from your lungs. It's pleasant and wonderful, like flowers blooming in the spring or the gentle scent of petrichor in the morning. You let a wobbly grin spread over your face. 

"I love you too, Boris. You're the best thing that has ever happened to me." Then, Boris lets you pull him against you once more. You fall back against the couch, cradling him, arms around his taller frame, silently promising to keep him safe and to help him get better. "You're staying here with me, okay? You're not going back to your dad. I won't let you." Despite the force in your words, the way they are spoken, Boris knows that, if he really wanted to, you would let him go back home. You always would- but he didn't want to go back. He wanted to stay with you forever, if you were giving hi that option. You kiss the top of his head, down the side of it, his temple, the base of his ear, his jaw, "I love you, I love you, I love you," You mutter the word between each kiss, until he finally moves his head away and recaptures your lips within his. For a moment, your breath is gone again. All you know is him- he tastes faintly of mint, his toothpaste, as well as the lingering tang of alcohol. It's so comforting that you melt right into his arms just as he melts into yours. Only when you have to do you part, and now it's Boris' turn to pull you into his arms, his chin resting atop your head. In his gentle, quiet, accented voice, he says, the one Russian phrase that you recognize,

"Ya tebya lyublyu." You decide here and now that you want to marry this boy.


End file.
